


Waiting for the fever to break

by bigender dean winchester (homosexualitie)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester Uses ASL, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Gen, Missing Scene, Nonbinary Character, Nonverbal Communication, Sam Winchester Uses ASL, Sam is nonverbal for some parts of this, Sibling Bonding, They/Them pronouns for Sam Winchester, an attempt at a healthy sibling relationship, not a successful attempt but an attempt nonetheless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27852334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosexualitie/pseuds/bigender%20dean%20winchester
Summary: Takes place directly after pilot, when literally all of Sam's clothes burned up in the fire... so they need to buy new clothes at goodwill. Sibling bonding ensues and also they're both miserable.Also Sam is a theythem because I said so.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	Waiting for the fever to break

**Author's Note:**

> titles are hard. this title is ripped from letter from belgium by the mountain goats and it doesn't aply that well.

Sam’s barely talking, which normally Dean can handle, but right now Sam’s barely lucid enough to move, let alone communicate. The fragments of ASL Dean learned from a middle school friend have always served them well— both for silent communication in the middle of tense hunts and for moments like these, when Sam would go nonverbal for a few minutes or hours or days. 

But there would be times (like now) when Sam would be too panicked for even a quick exchange in ASL. Besides, driving and signing- not a good combination for Dean. 

Dean decides to try, one last time, to talk to Sam. He’s got years of experience figuring Sam out, reading their expressions and tone. He can get through the whole nonverbal thing, like he has a hundred times before.

“I saw a motel on the drive in,” he starts, keeping his voice casual. Sam flinches at the sound of his voice. Dean starts again. “We could hunker down... go to the funeral, if you—”

Sam sighs angrily. Dean looks over and they sign  _ no funeral _ .

“Alright, then. We can leave town and get a motel somewhere else.”

He looks over at Sam. They sign  _ no motel _ . 

Dean bites back a retort, reminds himself of what Sam just lost— they’ve just lost any hope for a normal college life, their girlfriend just died, he’s not gonna yell at them. But Sam really isn’t making that easy. “Fine,” he says. “Guess we’re sleeping in the car tonight.” It doesn’t get the reaction he expected from Sam, it doesn’t get any reaction at all. 

He still puts as much distance between them and Palo Alto as he can. He gets on the interstate and drives until he can feel his eyes starting to close. He stops at the nearest rest stop and parks far away from other cars. Sam doesn’t move, so Dean sighs and gets out of the car. 

He’s got a few threadbare blankets in the trunk, but it’s a warm enough night that he doesn’t need one. He looks up at Sam, though, and they’re shivering slightly. 

Dean shakes his head and pulls out the least ragged of the blankets for Sam. He walks up to the passenger’s side and opens the door. Sam doesn’t move. Dean’s only sure that they’re not dead because he can see their chest rising and falling. 

He wraps the blanket around Sam’s shoulders. “Come on, Sam,” Dean instructs, trying not to sound like a nagging parent. “You need to sleep, okay?”

Sam reaches up and pulls the blanket tighter around them. They close their eyes obediently. Dean flinches, worried that he’s turned into Dad, spitting out orders that Sam follows blindly. As he turns to get into the back seat, he sees Sam sign  _ thanks _ out of the corner of his eye. 

That’s the most he’s gonna get out of Sam, so he lays back and tries to sleep. 

When he wakes up, Sam is asleep, snoring softly. They’re curled up slightly to fit in the seat and their head is bowed as if in prayer. Dean doesn’t have the heart to wake them up, but there’s a convenience store inside, so he finds his wallet and goes in to buy something for the road. 

He ends up buying two red bulls (both for him), a cup of coffee (for Sam), and two breakfast sandwiches. 

He takes his time walking back to the car, savoring the feeling of sun on his skin, the slight chill in the air. In the car, Sam sits up slowly and rubs at their eyes. Dean slides into the drivers seat and hands Sam the coffee and one of the sandwiches.

Sam takes the coffee in their left hand, signs  _ thanks _ with their right. Dean shakes the sandwich at them, and after a moment, they take that too. 

“You’re welcome,” Dean says, and pauses. He knows that Sam’s fragile, after all they just lost. But they can’t live like this forever, Dean driving wordlessly down the interstate, Sam on the verge of a breakdown beside him. If they’re going to start hunting again, if they’re going to look for Dad, Dean wants Sam at least a little more stable. “Look, Sammy, as much as I enjoy these one-sided conversations, you’re gonna have to talk about it sometime.”

Sam doesn’t reply. They take a sip of coffee and turn pointedly away from Dean. 

Dean takes a bite of the sandwich. He realizes that he hasn’t eaten in nearly a full day, which means Sam hasn’t eaten either. But they aren’t touching their sandwich, just drinking their coffee slowly, holding it in both hands like they’re afraid of dropping it. 

Sam turns over to look at him, makes a face like ‘why aren’t we driving?’

Dean sighs. He feels like Dad again, giving pointless orders and expecting nothing less than perfection. He pushes that thought out of his mind. What he’s asking from Sam isn’t perfection, he’s just asking that they take care of themself. “You need to eat.”

Sam glares up at him through their hair. They take a bite out of the sandwich spitefully, which is a funny sight. But Dean feels more relieved than amused, especially cause Sam keeps eating. Satisfied, he starts the car and drives away from the rest stop. 

They’ve been driving for an hour or so when Sam clears their throat and asks, “Where are we going?” Their voice is hoarse, and Dean wonders if they were crying last night. 

Dean doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t know where they’re going, really— his only plan was getting them as far away from Palo Alto as possible. 

“I don’t know, where do you want to go?” Dean asks. 

“I, uh—” Sam starts, but they stop. Dean looks over, concerned, and they sign  _ no clothes _ . 

Shit. Dean’s been worried about Sam grieving their girlfriend, but he didn’t even consider that Sam’s whole apartment just burned down, along with everything they owned. Dean’s been homeless ever since their mom died, kept anything of value in the Impala, but Sam’s been living at Stanford for a few years now and they’ve just lost all the stuff they had there. 

Besides, the clothes they  _ are _ wearing aren’t in good condition either— there are burn marks on Sam’s shirt, and their jacket is pretty dirty.

Dean supposes he could lend Sam some clothes for now, although Sam’s not really his  _ little _ brother anymore, and there’s a good chance that Sam wouldn’t fit into anything he owns. Or— “We can find a place to buy clothes,” Dean says. “Where’s the nearest town?”

Sam pulls the map out of the glove compartment and scans it, looks up at the road signs. They point down at the map at something that Dean can’t see. 

He tries very hard not to get angry. “I need  _ directions _ ,” he says. 

Sam sighs and signs  _ pull car over _ . Dean sighs, but he does pull the car over to the side of the road, looks over the map. There’s a town nearby, less than half an hour. 

They get into the town slowly, and there’s a nearly empty Goodwill on the outskirts of town, which Dean is grateful for. 

But Sam doesn’t get out of the car, they just sit still, head in hands. Dean leans back and tries to remember what he’s supposed to do when Sam gets like this. It makes him a little concerned, that he’s failing in his duties as a brother. But it’s been  _ years _ since he’s had to comfort Sam, and they’ve never been this distant. 

Dean runs through the list of Things He Knows About Sam, which used to be long and contain things like  _ Sam likes mac and cheese _ and  _ Sam likes when I sing to them _ , but now all he knows about Sam is that they’re his brother (although he’s not even sure if that’s the right word) and they just watched their girlfriend die. Not exactly helpful information. 

He looks over at Sam and says, after a moment, “we can leave, if you want. There’s other places to buy clothes.”

Sam looks up, almost surprised to hear Dean. They sort of shake their head, and clear their throat. “No,” they say. “No, I’m alright now.”

Dean’s not an idiot. He knows that’s what Sam thinks of him— with their college education and all, Dean must seem like the same blunt instrument Dad always wanted him to be. And maybe that’s true, but Dean’s always been smarter than Sammy about one thing, and that’s reading their emotions. 

Sam is most certainly  _ not _ alright now. Maybe they’ve pushed the pain far enough under everything else that they can’t feel it, but there’s no way in hell that Sam is  _ okay _ . But they’re pretty damn resilient (of course they are, they’re a Winchester), and Dean thinks they can handle a quick shopping trip. 

Besides, somewhere on the list of Things Dean Knows About Sam is  _ they like shopping, it makes them feel in control _ . So Dean gets out of the car and waits for Sam to get out too. They walk slowly, and Dean follows them inside.

After a few minutes— Sam walking very carefully through the entrance and looking around the large store (scanning for threats, Dean knows that look well), they relax a little, stop looking for threats and start looking for clothes. 

Dean relaxes too, wanders through the aisles looking at the clothes there. He finds a t-shirt that says ‘chaotic, not psychotic’ across the chest and holds it up to Sam, a few aisles away. Sam shakes their head and says, “come on, Dean, we’re looking for real clothes,” but Dean can see them fighting a smile. 

Dean joins them as they’re looking through a bunch of button up shirts. They pick up a pretty good looking flannel, dark green. 

“That’s a good one,” Dean says.

Sam glares at him. “I’m not a fucking child,” they snap. “Don’t—” they affect a mocking tone “‘Ooh, that’s a good one.’ Stop that.”

Dean blinks. “Okay, fine, whatever you want. That’s a shitty flannel and I hate it.”

Sam sighs angrily. “You’re such an asshole,” they say. Dean resists the urge to shove them, but he knocks into their shoulder when he walks past them, towards the aisles of pants. He’s almost angry at how tall they’ve gotten, that he can barely hit their shoulder with his own anymore.

He’s supposed to be their big brother, which means he’s supposed to be able to shove them around, he’s supposed to be  _ bigger _ than them. It’s weird that they’re definitely bigger than him now, and he hates it. 

He finds a pair of assless chaps and waves them at Sam. They flip him off, but they’re laughing, and Dean counts it as a win.

Dean wanders through pairs upon pairs of jeans in the next aisle. Sam is hell on earth to shop for, especially considering how tall they are now, but he manages to find a couple pairs of jeans that will probably fit them. Dean catches Sam’s eye, waves them over. They look away.

“Sammy,” he says loudly. The cashier turns to look at him strangely, but Dean continues, trying to get a rise out of Sam. “Hey, little brother! Come here, I have some—” 

Sam turns around and flips him off again. They walk over after a few moments, carrying a few shirts and t-shirts. The top shirt has vertical stripes, and Dean considers making a comment about how vertical stripes will make them look fat, but he bites it back. He doesn’t want to be too sharp with them, after all, he hasn’t seen them in nearly four years. Insulting them, especially after what they’ve been through, isn’t a great idea. 

Dean holds up the jeans. “See? They’re actually pretty good, I think these are Levis.” The jeans are a little worn around the knees, but they’re almost perfect for Sam’s size. Sam inspects them carefully, and decides to take them.

For some reason, Dean feels relieved. He points over to the section with jackets and says, “you’re gonna need some warm clothes, you know?”

Sam nods. “Definitely,” they say, and tip their armful of clothes into Dean’s arms. “Hey, hold these, will you?”

Dean sighs. Sam grins evilly. “Thanks, Dean,” they say, and clap him on the shoulder before they head over to the jackets. 

Sam has become less discerning about the clothes they look at, even just as they spend more time wandering around the aisles. The shirts they dumped on Dean are all in pretty good condition, mostly patterned with muted colors. Dean doesn’t really  _ get _ the whole thing with Sam’s gender or whatever, but the shirts are different, if only slightly, from the clothes Sam used to wear. All the shirts look a little more out there, like Sam wants to be visible instead of blending into the background.

Sam emerges from the jacket section carrying at  _ least _ five jackets. Dean inspects each one, and determines that they’re fine, if a little thin. 

“I told you, you need warm clothes,” Dean says. When he realizes he sounds nagging, he chides himself, remembers that Sam’s an adult, and they’ve been taking care of themself for a few years without him now. But Sam nods and gestures to the aisle full of jackets.

Dean walks over, Sam in tow. He passes over the jackets he can see hanging, and finds a thick Carhartt jacket, in near-perfect condition.

“Sammy, check this out,” he says. “Dude, I would kill for something like this!”

Sam rolls their eyes. “Well you can have it,” they reply. “I hate Carhartt. When I first got to Stanford, everyone thought I was a backwards hick, cause of all the flannels and Carhartt shit.”

“Well, you are kind of a hick,” Dean says, and gestures to their outfit. Sam doesn’t laugh. 

“No, I’m not,” they say irritably. “ _ You _ might be a hick, but I’m not.”

Dean laughs a little. “Well, either way, it’s a damn good jacket, and I’m not letting you leave it here.”

Sam rolls their eyes, but they take the jacket out of Dean’s free hand anyway. “Okay,” they say. “I think I have everything I need.”

Dean assesses their pile of clothes. It seems like enough to last them a couple of weeks without laundry, which is how Dean knows he has enough clothes. And even if it isn’t enough, Dean has his stolen credit cards, so they could buy clothes anywhere if they needed. 

They check out. The cashier looks strangely at the burn marks on Sam’s shirt, but doesn’t comment. Dean’s grateful for small mercies, and he takes the bags of clothes and walks outside. Sam follows close behind him, close enough that Dean can hear their steps falter, and then stop, as soon as they get outside. 

He turns around and Sam’s frozen in place, looking at the ground. Not a good sign. Dean grabs their shoulder and guides them, half pushing and half carrying them, into the passengers seat of the Impala and shuts the door. 

Dean had thought— well, he’d thought he could keep Sam together, could hold off their inevitable breakdown, at least until they were out of town, somewhere where Dean could control the environment, or at least not in public, where anyone can see them. He doesn’t know how to help Sam here, and he can feel that failure weighing on him.

Dean pauses outside his door for a second, puts his head in his hands. He can hear Sam sobbing softly in the car, and he wishes that he could be selfish for just a minute, could ignore Sam and spiral into his own little breakdown, worry about Dad and fall apart in his own way. 

But he doesn’t have that luxury. Sam needs him, and that always comes first. Dean gets in the car and sits down. He puts his hand carefully on Sam’s shoulder.

Sam tenses up, but they don’t move much, so Dean leaves his hand there, lets Sam cry. After a few minutes, Sam catches their breath and looks up at Dean. 

“I’m never going to have a normal life, am I?” they ask, and Dean flinches. It’s not because of what they’re asking, but how they’re asking it. They sound so much like the child Dean remembers them as.

But they’re not a kid anymore, and they deserve the truth. Dean looks out the window behind them. “I don’t know, Sammy.”

Sam closes their eyes and shrugs their shoulder, so Dean’s hand falls. He can feel resentment coming off them in waves, in the set of their jaw and the way they’re holding themself. Somehow he’s grateful for it— he’d prefer resentment to despair any day. He can’t handle people in the depths of despair, but he can handle himself in a fight, whether verbal or physical. 

But Sam doesn’t start a fight. They just bow their head and sigh deeply. Dean turns in his seat, as best as he can, and wraps one arm around them. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and rests his cheek on the top of their head.

Sam doesn’t hug him back, but they don’t pull away either, and after a few long moments, Dean pulls back and turns back to the wheel. 

Sam doesn’t say anything more, and neither does Dean. After a long silence, Sam signs  _ let’s go _ , and slaps their hand against the dashboard for emphasis. Dean flinches at the sound, but he starts the car anyway.

He puts the car in gear and pulls away from the Goodwill. He still doesn’t know where they’re headed, if they’re going to look for a case or lay low until Sam feels better, but he knows that he wants to get the hell out of this town and back onto the highway. He reaches down for his box of cassettes. Sam reaches down and hands him one, the one marked ‘Sammy’s Music.’ 

The music on that cassette has to be at least ten years old, judging by Dean’s handwriting on the label. He puts it in anyways, keeps it turned down low. 

Sam doesn’t say anything, but in the corner of his eye, Dean sees them rest their head on the window and look out at the road. Dean heads east, towards the darkening horizon, and keeps his eyes trained on the road.


End file.
